


Anniversary

by ThedasWitch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Between Acts 2 and 3, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Post-All That Remains, Post-Demands of the Qun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:47:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6151107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThedasWitch/pseuds/ThedasWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the anniversary of Hawke's worst night, she isn't coping well. Her dog, Wrex, seeks out someone who can help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: fixed the line spacing issue. Should be easier to read now

Wrex was an intelligent dog, even for a mabari.

Most of the people Hawke met didn’t realize exactly how smart he really was. He couldn’t speak their languages, of course, but he could understand more than they knew.

He knew that “Hawke” was the word for his mistress.

He knew magic, whether it came from his mistress or from someone else. It made his nose tingle.

And he knew pack, whether it was the ones that shared blood and scent with Hawke or the ones she’d collected since they came to the stone city. He recognized them all by scent and sound; the female who let him chase humans in armor, the short one who made his mistress laugh, the other magic human who smelled just slightly like someone else. He knew the magic not-human who liked talking to him, the female who smelled like the sea and never let him get too close, and the male who always smelled like incense. And he knew the one who growled, the thin not-human who smelled a bit like magic but wasn’t magic, the one whose scent he could still find on the sheets of Hawke’s bed.

They were all Hawke’s pack, and so, by extension, they were his too.

None of them were in Hawke’s home that night. Which was a bad thing. The others who slept nearby--two short not-humans, the boy who spoke to him and the louder one with hair on his face, and a small not-human with a soft voice and gentle hands--were away. Other than Wrex, Hawke was alone. She’d shut the door to where she slept, and wouldn’t let him inside when he scratched at the door. But he could smell the sour-grapes smell of the liquid she usually drank with her pack, and every so often he could hear a crashing sound.

Wrex whined. He didn’t like this at all.

There was only one thing for it. He left his place in front of Hawke’s room, where he’d been stretched out with his nose pressed to the crack of light below the door. He nosed open the small door in the kitchen, and set off at a trot through the darkening streets.

* * *

 

Fenris was losing at Wicked Grace. Again.

Honestly, after nearly four years playing against Varric and Isabela, he should’ve been used to it by now. Although he’d hoped that Isabela inviting the witch to join them would mean that he’d at least not be the worst player in the Hanged Man that night. But, apparently, Merrill had either hit a tremendous streak of luck or discovered a newfound skill, because she had a tidy pile of coin on the table in front of her.

“Winner buys the next round, Kitten,” said Isabela, leaning back in her chair.

Merrill gathered up their empty tankards and made her way out of Varric’s rooms, nearly dropping the lot twice before she was out of the door. The dwarf stood up to follow her. “Better make sure Daisy doesn’t get lost on her way to the bar.”

Varric was nearly bowled over by Hawke’s mabari as it galloped up the stairs, skidding to a halt at the foot of the table. “Guess she decided to come after all,” said the dwarf. “My guess is she's at the bar. We’ll bring her up.”

Fenris shifted in his seat, trying to school his features into a mask of calm. It had been a little more than a year since his night with Hawke. Since he’d left her. Even now, it was difficult, being in her company. She still brought him with her when she had a task to perform, still fought at his side, but the atmosphere between them had changed. There was an awkwardness now that hadn’t been there before. It was hard, being around her with the memory of what had happened between them. Even harder because she seemed so committed to acting like it never happened.

The mabari whined loudly, still standing by the table. Fenris glanced at the dog, not sure why it hadn’t laid in the usual place by the chair Hawke favored. The hound stared at him, his eyes more intelligent than any dog’s had a right to be. It hopped backwards, towards the doorway, whining again.

Varric and Merrill returned to the room with another round, the dwarf’s brow creased in confusion. “Hawke wasn’t there,” he said, and set the tankards on the table. “Weird. Wrex doesn’t usually come out without her.”

“Do you think he wanted to play cards?” Merrill said.

“Somehow I doubt it, Daisy,” replied Varric. Wrex whined again, looking pointedly from the dwarf to the doorway. Varric seemed to be thinking for a moment, watching the dog’s antics. “Shit,” he said, like something just occurred to him. “What day is it?”

“Does it matter?” asked Isabela, draping herself across the arm of her chair. “That dog is always strange.”

“It matters, Rivaini,” said Varric. “Remember what we were doing this time last year?”

Isabela thought for a moment, then closed her eyes and groaned. “Shit.”

“Last year?” asked Merrill. “Let’s see… we found a flower for that nice man from the Gallows, helped Feynriel with his nightmares, and…” she trailed off, her large eyes going wider as she realized. “Oh, no, Leandra…”

Hawke’s mother.

Fenris could still remember every moment of that night clearly, from the blood splatter on the cobblestones to Hawke’s face when he went to her room. He hadn’t been able to resist going to her, even after what had happened between them, not when she was in so much pain. He didn’t know that he had helped her at all, but he’d stayed with her all night, letting her talk herself hoarse about her mother and their life before Kirkwall.

She hadn’t cried, at least not while he could see.

He hadn’t realized that it had been a year already. And, now that he did, he also realized that he hadn’t seen the mabari act this oddly since Hawke had been recovering from battle with the Arishok.

Varric and Isabela were arguing, trying to decide on a course of action. They debated fetching Aveline, who’d known Leandra the longest, or Anders, who’d always been close to Hawke. Fenris scowled at the idea of the abomination comforting her. And somehow he didn’t think Aveline was right, either.

Fenris stood before he realized that he intended to, his chair scraping against the floorboards loudly. He said nothing, simply began walking out of Varric’s rooms. The dog followed and charged ahead to lead the way through the crowded tavern.

“I guess that settles it, then,” said Varric.

* * *

 

Fenris stalked through the streets of Hightown, following the mabari to Hawke’s estate. The hound paused every so often and looked back as if to check that he still followed.

The door swung open when Fenris knocked, apparently unlatched. He frowned. Even Hawke was not usually so reckless as to leave her door unlocked in Kirkwall. Something really was amiss.

He made his way through the mansion’s entryway to the main room, where the fire was burning low. Glancing around, he could see no sign of Hawke.

“Fenris!” a voice called. The sound came from the landing overlooking the room, and Fenris looked up to find the source. It was Hawke, leaning on the railing with a wide smile and flushed cheeks. “So very nice of you to come.” The source of her merriment was clear from her slurred speech and the bottle dangling from her hand.

“Have a drink with me?” she asked, then turned and walked back to her room without waiting for an answer. Fenris made his way up to her door, but paused before entering. Hawke was sitting on the floor, arm resting on a bent knee, leaning against the foot of her bed. She patted the stone next to her and waved him in. “Come on, Fen,” she said. “Don’t make me finish all this myself.”

Fenris entered the room slowly, memories of his other visit flashing through his head. Hawke’s hands pulling at his clothes, her lips and hands and breathy moans… but this wasn’t about that. This was about giving what little comfort he could.

He took the seat Hawke offered, and she pressed a bottle of wine into his hands. They sat in silence for a few moments. Fenris glanced around the room. There were a few bottles at Hawke’s side, one already empty. High on one wall, there was a deep red stain that dripped down to a pile of broken glass, like she’d flung a full bottle against the stone.

Hawke sighed and leaned her head back against the bed. Fenris watched her, taking in the details of her appearance as he tried to decide what was needed. Her robes were wrinkled, her belt fastened crookedly, her bright hair mussed and only half pulled back into its usual tie. In all the years he’d known the woman, he couldn’t recall seeing her like this before. Even in her atrocious mage robes, Hawke always had an air of effortless grace and composure. To see that composure shaken now… it seemed wrong, like Fenris was intruding on something he shouldn’t be allowed to see.

“She liked you, you know,” said Hawke, without preamble. Fenris knew without asking who she meant. He remained silent, let her keep speaking. Hawke took another swig from her wine bottle. “She thought you had good manners. ‘Refined,’ I think she said once.” She laughed, but the sound had no humor in it. “To be fair, it doesn’t take much to seem refined in comparison to… pretty much everyone else who fights with me. Including me, for that matter.” Her fingers drummed lightly against the glass bottle in her grasp. The faint sound seemed almost deafening in the stillness of her bedroom.

Fenris debated speaking, then, but by the time he could think of words that didn’t seem trite he’d been silent for too long. They remained in that position, not speaking, until Hawke broke the silence again.

“Do you…” Hawke worried her lower lip with her teeth. “Do you think she would’ve been proud? Of everything I’ve done since… since then? She always wanted me to do something with my life. I don’t know if she ever expected the Arishok, or me being Champion, but… do you think she’d be proud?”

“I do, Hawke.” Fenris may not have known Leandra well, but he’d known her enough to be sure that she loved her daughter, and that she’d be proud to see how far Hawke had risen.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Hawke leaned against his shoulder. Fenris went stiff at the contact. He didn’t know how to deal with this, how to provide comfort to someone who was hurting. He could take down an enemy with hand or blade, could bind a wound, clean a sword--venhedis, he could even serve a noble’s dinner party--but he couldn’t do this.

“I know we don’t talk about… what happened between us. That’s fine, it doesn’t matter…”

That hurt. Fenris knew that leaving had been his own decision, that he had no right to care how she felt about it now, but still, it hurt to hear her dismiss it.

“But before that,” she continued, “before… everything, we were friends once.” She sucked in a ragged breath. “Can you just… I need a friend right now. Please.” Hawke’s voice ended on a broken note.

 _I am yours, for whatever you need_. Thoughts he kept to himself. But he answered her in the only way he could.

“Of course, Hawke.”

Tentatively, Fenris wrapped an arm around Hawke’s shoulders. She was crying now, weeping into his shoulder like she was trying to hide the sound. Soothing didn’t come naturally to Fenris, but he held her and let her cry. He stroked her hair the way he remembered seeing… someone do, somewhere. It seemed to help, somewhat, and slowly, her sobs came slower and softer.

He stayed there until she fell asleep against him, and remained a little longer to make sure she wouldn’t wake. Scooping her up in his arms, he carried her to her bed and laid her down softly.

He indulged himself, a moment, stroking a few strands of red-orange hair out of her face. And if his touch lingered a bit longer than was necessary, well, he was the only one who would know.

Helping her through this was… something. It wasn’t what he wished he could give her. What he wished they could have.

But it was something, and for now, it was enough.


End file.
